Wartorn Platform
by OddLittleBrit
Summary: During WWII, children were evacuated, for their own safety of course. But to Arthur, the safest place for his son is in his arms - right? It'll take some getting used to for Alfred to settle in with the French family he's homed with. Human AU, WWII evacuation fic, sort of FACE family and a terrible title. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**AN: So this was planned as a possible three chapter thing, but I ended up not finding the time to get more done, so at the moment I've left it as one longish piece. If you enjoy and I get the inspiration, I'm thinking of adding another; maybe I'll unite FACE once again! Much love, and thank you to all you lovely people who favourites, followed and reviewed to my latest stuff - VIRTUAL HUGS AND COOKIES FOR YOU ALL! 3**

**DISCLAIMER: Hetalia c'est... not mine... My French is terrible ahahah**

* * *

In amongst the crowded platform, two blonde heads stood out in the never ending sea of black and grey. A father and his son stood pressed against a soot-covered wall, waiting for the train to arrive. Arthur Kirkland griped his sons hand tightly as waves of parents and children rush past them, almost crushing the poor boy. He glanced down at him, heart swelling with pride and a little sadness too. Alfred stood upright, inquisitive eyes darting around the platform and a brave grin plastered on his tiny face. Dressed his his Sunday best, with his hair clean as it could be and those sky blue eyes he was easily the most handsome on the platform - at least to Arthur he was. They had spoken at length about what was happening; Britain was at war, and for Alfred to be safe, he should go away for a bit.

"It won't be for long," Arthur reminded him as they made their way to the station. The young boy, who had only just turned six, smiled up at his father and nodded.

"Yeah! I'm gonna go have a holiday and when I come back, it'll all be okay!" The optimism had made Arthur smile, despite the tightening in his heart. There was more than one reason for Alfred being sent away. Being the healthy 28 year old he was, Arthur was needed on the front line. With his wife long gone and no family available to care for Alfred, the safest solution was evacuation. It was for the best Arthur knew, Alfred would be safe, but that wasn't what worried him. Nor was it war - he was ready to fight. He would proudly stand for his country, even die for it - but there was one thing he feared of death; the idea of leaving Alfred without a father. Arthur hadn't told Alfred that he'd be fighting, only that he too would be sent away for some time. He prayed for his son's sake that he made it back too.

When the train finally pulled into the station, Arthur bent down to Alfred's height. Green eyes met blue and Arthur smiled as best he could.

"Are you ready?" he asked, as his fingers absently re-buttoned Alfred's coat. Alfred nodded, staring back into his fathers eyes. He had fallen unusually silent, and Arthur was about to ask what was wrong when the small boy suddenly launched himself into his arms. Alfred buried himself in Arthur's chest, little fingers scrabbling on the warm, familiar feeling of his jumper. Arthur, bewildered at first, melted - as did the lump in his throat. He wrapped his arms around his son as tightly as he could. He barely noticed his own tears over the sound of Alfred's sniffles.

Arthur would have given anything for them to stay like that, for his arms to be enough to protect the precious child he held in his arms. His heart ached to pull away, but if he didn't, they never would. He took a breath to compose himself, regaining the small smile he had mastered over the past few days.

"It won't be forever Alfie...I'll be coming to collect you before you know it." Alfred let out one last muffled sob and looked up. "P-Promise?" Arthur nodded, pressing a kiss to Alfred'd head. "Cross my heart," he smiled, running a finger over his chest. It seemed to please Alfred, who smiled back at him.

"But you have to promise me, you'll be a big brave boy now? And you make sure to be nice to whoever you live with, yes?" Alfred nodded, treating Arthur to one of his best smiles. "Cross _my_ heart!" With a chuckle, Arthur pulled himself up, scooping Alfred's case up too. Looping their hands together, the small Kirkland duo made their way to the train. Arthur watched as other parents waved teary goodbye's and children of all ages scrambled to find a place on the train. A teacher who was assisting a class of second year students onto the train smiled at him. She smiled at Arthur when he caught sight of Alfred, who, despite his promise, still looked rather wary of the huge train.

"Would you like to sit with us, young man?" she asked, receiving a grateful smile from Arthur. Alfred turned to the woman, peering nervously at the line of children with her. They _looked _nice. He glanced at his father who gave him a nod. "If you want to..."

For a few seconds, Alfred paused until a whistle startled them all. Te train was ready to go now, as the last remaining evacuees boarded. Prompted by the noise, Alfred nodded.

"Lovely! How about we find you someone - Ivan? Ivan, sweetie, would you sit with Alfred on the train?" The small child regarded Alfred cooly with violet eyes, before a slow smile enveloped his face. "Alfred. Yes, I''ll sit with you." Alfred's smile grew too as the boy stepped forward, putting a mitten-covered hand on his shoulder.

Having made a new friend, Alfred seemed happier to board the train, and before long the train was ready to leave. Arthur stood back, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck as it began to move. Eyes searched the cabins hungrily for his son, and his heart lifted to see him poke his head from a window, Ivan squashed up with him. He looked happy. As the train gathered speed, he found his father amongst the crowd and waved energetically, and Arthur raised his hand back. He gave Arthur one last grin before the train vanished from sight, leaving Arthur with the heaviest heart in the world.

It was for the best though... wasn't it?

* * *

Alfred had found that by wrapping his coat up on top of his case, he could make an almost-comfortable seat for himself. It had been a long day, up at six and out for eight and it left him exhausted. His legs could hardly support him he was so worn out; both mentally and physically. He missed his father, he missed his house, his bed. He already missed the city, with it's constant hum of life and chatter. Even during a raid, there was some comforting sound, be it his Arthur's warm voice singing him to sleep or the quiet conversation of the nice couple sitting with them in the shelter.

Now he sat in a church hall, in a small village somewhere in the British countryside, tired, hungry and lonely. The teacher had sadly waved goodbye when her class left for a school building, while Alfred was left standing with other children in the hall.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed since his arrival in the village, but he did notice a distinct lack of noise now. Lifting his head from where it was held in his hands, he glanced around the room. There were only a few children still here. He had watched for a while, as men, women and families had wandered in, picking up children and taking them out. He watched the pretty girls go, the strong looking boys and the cute-as-a-button toddlers. He had been off in the corner, daydreaming so not many people spotted him.

Something swirled in his stomach when he saw another woman come in and he watched a boy about his age being swept off to a new home. Why not him? Was he not good enough? What if nobody came for him? He had become so entangled in his fears that he didn't notice two new shadows enter the hall.

Francis Bonnefoy was a 27 year old Frenchman, who had moved to England to be closer to his son - Matthew. When news broke of the batch of evacuees had finally arrived, he had looked over at his 7 year old son and smiled.

"Matthieu? What would you think of 'aving one of them stay with us? They could 'ave the spare room... what do you think?" His quiet son had looked up over his book and thought for a second.

"I... I guess it wouldn't be too bad..." That had settled it, and so that evening they had arrived at the hall (much later than expected because Matthew simply _had _to finish his book first) just as the sun began to set.

Alfred watched as the pair walked in, his head peering over his fingers. They looked nice, not that he could see much more than their silhouettes. As they moved closer, the light form the hall lit their faces and Alfred saw a kind looking man glancing around the room, while a boy around his height stared intently at... him?

This was his chance! He snapped upright, his hands moving to reveal a grin for the boy. The boy looked puzzled, until Alfred waved at him, and he waved back, the corners of his lips turing up too. The boy tugged on who Alfred guessed was his father's hand, pointing in his direction. His heart suddenly raced, as the man followed the boys gzae to where Alfred was smiling sweetly up form his case.

After a second, the man too grinned, and they walked over to where Alfred sat.

"Bonjour, little one - what is your name?" His accent was unusual to say the least, but he remembered his promise to Arthur that he'd be nice, so he kept quiet about it.

"Alfred, sir! Alfred F. Kirkland!" He said, sanding and offering out his hand like Arthur had taught him. The man chuckled, and took his hand, shaking it gently.

"I am Francis Bonnefoy, and this is my son-"

"Matthew," the boy interrupted, giving Alfred another wave. Alfred smiled. "Bonnefoy? That's an interesting name."

Francis smiled, something he did a lot it seemed. "It's French, mon petit, do you like it?"

Alfred thought then nodded energetically. "Yeah, it's pretty cool - not as awesome as Kirkland though!"

He was rewarded with another laugh and a hand on his head as Francis ruffled his hair, making it stick up even more. "If you say so Alfred. So, 'ow would you like to come with us, eh? You can 'ave the spare bedroom..."

If Alfred's grin grew any more, Francis feared his face would split, the size of his grin. The boy seemed to positively shine with happiness at the thought of living with them.

"Oh, sir! I'd love to! Thank you!"

It was fifteen minutes later that the trio were leaving the hall, headed down the winding road towards Mr. Bonnefoy's house, that Alfred realised that maybe this wouldn't be as bad as he had thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: So I continued! If I get time, I have one more bit to this so maybe~**

**DISCLAIMER: Still not mine**

* * *

Alfred soon fell into a comfortable routine with the Bonnefoy's. He slept the room at the end of the hallway, next door to Matthew's that was big enough for him to fit his clothes and new toys, as Matthew had been generous with the toys he protested were 'too young for me, Alfred can have them!'. The large window across one wall gave him a beautiful view of the rolling hills of the village outskirts, something his young eyes have never seen. At first, the vastness of the place had spooked him, how... _green _it all was! Everywhere he looked, trees surrounded him and mud coated the ground.

He still had school, only now it was in the village school which was much smaller than his own bustling grounds. Every morning he was woken at seven by a call of "Good morning, garçons!" which was followed ten minutes later by a call of "Alfred F. Kirkland, get up _now _or there's no breakfast!"

That prompted him to roll from his bed, and scramble to the bathroom, usually meeting Matthew on the way in, who would smile politely as he headed downstairs. "I'll tell Papa you're up." Clean and dressed, he would bound downstairs and greet his foster father with a grin. "Good morning Mr. Bon- Fancis!" The Frenchman had insisted he be called anything but Mr. Bonnefoy - "That was my father Alfred, I'm Francis to you, oui?"

By a quarter past eight, he and Matthew were being waved off by Francis and headed down the long winding road. Francis had dug out a spare pair of boots for him after he arrived back home one night splattered in mud, and it made squelching through muddy puddles all the more fun knowing he wasn't in for a lecture that night.

Once they had arrived at the school gates, Matthew would wave goodbye and wander off to find his friends in the year above Alfred, while Alfred waited under the nearby tree for the bell to ring. Ivan, the boy he had met on the train had also ended up at the school, and Alfred soon found himself waiting there for Ivan instead and the two of them would spend the day joined at the hip. Ivan seemed cold at first, but Alfred found that he could soon get him to open up if he was persistent.

The two grew close over the first few weeks and Francis had even allowed Alfred to bring Ivan home a few times for dinner. They would spend the hours before dinner out in the fields, two city boys exploring the vast lands, sometimes roping Matthew in to show them around more. He took them deep into the woods, showed them how to wait in silence for the squirrels and birds that inhabited the trees and helped them perfect the art of tree climbing. Eventually Francis could be heard calling them for dinner, and the three of them rushed back to find a table ready and Francis sitting in wait.

The days were so fast that most nights, Alfred simply fell into bed in the evenings, too tired to think as he fell into the bed and slipped straight into a deep sleep. It was on calmer days, the weekends and such, that he was more alert in the later hours of the day. As he lay in bed, watching the window quietly, his mind would wander; more often or not to his father. He felt rather guilty sometimes that he hadn't thought about his dad in a while, that he wasn't so distracted by this new life he had almost forgot this wasn't permanent. He wondered on those nights where Arthur was, what he was doing and if he was thinking of him... it was on those nights that he silently cried himself to sleep.

* * *

Two months. It had been two long months since Arthur had arrived in the trenches, and it had been the worst two months of his life. There was no way to properly describe the place he was in, no words that properly depicted the horrendous scenes that he woke up to each morning, if he slept at all that is. More often than not, he spent his hours off duty shivering in his cot, his useless blanket clutched between shaking fingers.

The cold wasn't the only problem though, oh no. If it wasn't the cold, it was the rain that pelted down, icy sheets soaking him to the bone or filling his boots. Or it was the constant noise, the hum of war, occasionally punctured with gunfire and screaming. That, or just the sheer thought of what was going on just feet from his door - death. The men being gunned down in an instant, pushed by orders not to retreat. They had to run, in suicidal waves towards the guns that knocked them down with ease. It was sheer luck that he had survived this long.

He sat now, watching the clock on the wall for the minutes to pass by. Five more minutes, and he was out , he tugged on the helmet that lay abandoned next to him, clipping it under his chin with a grunt. He stood up, tugging his uniform straight before he realised what he was doing. A smile graced his lips as he remembered Alfred's small hands tugging him like that, telling him to look his best for a night out.

_"C'mon dad, you gotta look good - for the ladies!" _

The cheeky bugger, he thought, slinging his gun over his shoulder. The thought gave him some comfort as he headed out for the night, and he left feeling a little lighter than usual.

Not that the feeling lasted. Running along the field, all thought was wiped from his mind. His legs moved without command, flying over the remains of troops and weapons, finger pulling rapidly on the trigger as he moved. It was a robotic action he did without thought, which would explain how he didn't stumble when he was first shot.

His feet continued to pound the ground, and then suddenly it was flying up to meet him. As his body collided with the mud and the breath was knocked from him, a wave of pain ran through him. it ripped through his abdomen, sending shudders up his spine as he hacked and coughed in a heap on the floor. He could feel something seep into his shirt and refused to believe it as he pushed himself up. He had to keep going, he had to. It was just a cut.

He threw himself to his feet, lurching forward with a terrible yell. He almost doubled over, but his legs told him otherwise and propelled him forward again. Through bleary eyes, he watched the men ahead of him fall and before he knew it, he had all but fallen over the dead man at his feet. He staggered, refusing to believe again, the bare truth. The green eyes of the soldier stared lifelessly back at him and with a horrified cry, he recognised the Scotsman he had shared a bunker with for the past week.

"N-No_-Ahhhh!" _In the one moment he stopped, gunfire ripped through him again. In his one show of weakness in two months, some blasted soldier had gone and sent a slurry of metal through his chest. The Brit toppled forward in a swirl of agony, as he felt blood soak him, as his leg twisted to some unnatural angle beneath the Scot and his head met solid ground with a thud.

He couldn't be sure weather the charge was ending, or if he was already slipping away but it suddenly quietened, and as he looked towards the late evening sky and thought of his son.

_"I'm sorry Alfie, I'm sorry. I-I promised..."_

* * *

A week later, an unknowing Alfred walked through the doors of Francis' house, Matthew not far behind.

"Francis? We're home!" he called, slipping his shoes off by the door. As he peeled himself out of his coat, the blonde appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Oh, Alfred - Bonjour, 'ow was your day?" he seemed distracted by something, but Alfred seemed oblivious to it.

"Oh, it was great! Mattie raced me home just now, and see who won! Hahaha, I'm the fastest in the world!" Francis chuckled, ruffling the boys hair with one hand, as the other tucked some papers into his trouser pocket. Alfred noticed that however, and his eyebrows bunched together.

"Is that a letter Francis? Is it my dad?!" He had begun to ask this, ever since a letter had found its way to him from Arthur. It wasn't much, a reminder to be good and an 'I love you' but it had brightened his day. The letter was pinned to his headboard, where he read it each night.

In reply, Francis sighed, then nodded. "Sort of..." He turned back to the table and took his seat, indicating for Alfred to sit next to him. There was a plate of cookies on the table, Francis' special homemade ones. This must be serious, Alfred thought as Francis pushed the plate towards him.

"Thank you," he mumbled as he nibbled at it, watching the Frenchman curiously. "So... it is from dad?" Francis shook his head.

"Non, not from him... about him. Alfred, did 'e tell you where 'e was going when you left?" A shake of the head. "Ah... well, he... 'e was fighting. In the war, as a soldier."

Alfred's head jerked upright, staring Francis in the eyes. "F-Fighting? B-But don't the soldier," he whispered the word "_...die?" _

Francis' heart dropped, seeing the boy so shocked. He supposed he had heard stories in the playground of children who had lost their fathers. He wrapped an arm around the boy.

"Not all of them, Alfred... your father... 'e's alive. But 'e's 'urt, and cannot fight anymore, 'e's very ill. I.. I 'ave invited 'im 'ere, so the two of you can stay safe 'ere in the country, oui?"

Alfred's face switched from near-tears to a grin in a second - his father was coming!

"Really?! Daddy! Wait, why were you so sad, it's good! I'm gonna see daddy!"

Francis watched as Matthew entered the kitchen, and smiled at the both of them. "I know, and it is. But you 'ave to remember 'e's very unwell... and 'e might not look the same... 'e's been through a lot Alfred... a lot."

"Kirkland, Arthur Kirkland," said the man at the door. He was shorter than Francis, but not by much. Emerald eyes studied him in the same way, sitting beneath the large eyebrows and mop of ruffled blonde hair. The man's uniform was clean and pressed, hiding the bandages Francis knew were hidden beneath. One arm was outstretched for Francis to shake, the other clutching a crutch, which stood in for the missing leg.

"And I am Francis Bonnefoy, please, come in." He stood aside, allowing the man to cross the threshold, and watched uneasily as he struggled out of his jacket. "Can I 'elp?" The man gave him an odd look, not quite a glare and a little shocked. "No, no thank you, I'm okay..." after a minute of precarious balancing, he had it off, and passed it to Francis who was ready to hang it up.

Francis then lead him to the living room, where a pot of tea was waiting. They sat and began to talk. Francis went to question Arthur's health, but before he could begin the Birt had asked -

"How is Alfred?" Francis smiled; the face that the strict looking man cared so much for his son was heartwarming.

"Arthur, 'e 'as been wonderful! 'E's polite, and it's been a pleasure to 'ave 'im - e's been nothing less than a gentleman. I suppose 'e gets that from you, non?" Arthur's lips quirked into a smile, chuckling at the Frenchman's compliments.

"I guess he does. When- what time will he be back?" Francis glanced at the clock, mentally adding the hours on.

"They'll be 'ome in an 'our or so."

"They?"

"OH, oui I forogt to say - I 'ave a son, Matthieu; 'e's seven. 'E's been so good with Alfred, they got on like an 'ouse on fire."

The continued to talk for the hour, Francis reassuring Arthur that Alfred's grades had been on track, that he'd eaten his greens (well, most of them). Francis asked a few times how he had been, but Arthur waved his questions away, telling him nothing more than what was obvious. He had mutilated a leg so badly, it was removed, and the shots that had left him short of breath and aching. Francis understood he didn't want to talk, but made it clear if he needed to talk, he was there.

"We fathers 'ave to stick together, oui?" Arthur chuckled, about to reply when a cry broke through the house.

"Ha, I win again! That's nine to me now!"

Arthur's eyes widened, and his face visibly lit. His voice was no more than a whisper. "Alfred?" Francis nodded, standing to open the door. Arthur pushed himself forward in his seat, hands gripping the side of the armchair so tightly his knuckles turned white. There were some hushed words out side, the sounds of a jacket being dropped, before the door flew open and Alfred landed in his arms with a cry of "Daddy!"

Despite the having the breath knocked out of him, and the painful jabs that shot through his chest, Arthur grinned. He wrapped his arms so tightly around Alfred, the boy giggled "Daddy, I can't breeeaath!" He pulled away, keeping his arms on his sons shoulders as he looked him over. Had he really been gone long enough for him to grow so much taller? What did it matter though, he was home now - he was with Alfred.

It was the innocence of his next question though, which broke the spell.

"D-Daddy... what happened to you?!"


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Sorry for the delay! I had no inspiration for ages, and then it hit; right as I started a load of work! ut I sat down today and finished it! So here we are, the end of this little piece. I hope you enjoyed it, I did. And I'm pretty happy with how it finishes. Apologies if dates are out, I couldn't find what day May 8th was, I made it a weekend~**

**DISCLAIMER: Still not mine, sadly...**

* * *

Arthur could feel the tears welling up. A lump appeared in his throat as he watched his son's face shatter as he took in his fathers broken form. His heart flipped and clenched; Alfred was frightened by him. He opened his mouth to speak, to say something to break the awful silence that had fallen, but no sound came out. Alfred, oblivious to his fathers emotions as ever, bit his lip and asked again. "Daddy? What happened, why are you-"

"Alfred," Francis' voice interrupted. Both blonde's glanced over at him, as he rose from his chair. "Why don't you go get your 'omework done first Alfred, we'll talk more then? You'll 'ave all night, oui?"

Alfred's eyes danced between his father and his host, until Matthew's head appeared around the door. "I-I'll help with your maths Al," he offered. Alfred took one last look at his father, before sliding down and trailing after Matthew.

Francis closed the door with a soft thud, before turing back to Arthur. He hadn't made a sound through any of it, rather he had almost become a statue. His eyes were staring intently at a spot on the wall and Francis could see the clenched muscles in the Englishman's jaw. His hands had knotted themselves into fists, fists that Francis walked over to unwind. He knelt by the armchair, gently moving aside the crutch.

"Arthur?" he asked quietly. He hadn't known the man a day, but he could tell he was not one to display too much emotion. He was bottling it in, Francis could see, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall, pushing away the pain. No response from him. Francis gently laid his hand over Arthur's, which got a reaction finally. As if he had only just realised Francis was there, his head dropped to him and he sighed.

"Oh, sorry ah-about that. I..." The Brit trailed off. His hands slowly uncurled under Francis' touch, lying flat on his thighs. He stared down at his legs, at the sudden end in material on his right side. He'd altered most of his own clothes, after getting home, angrily slicing and sewing at the material. It had almost been a release, a chance to release all the anger that had blossomed ever since he woke up in that damn hospital. Half-destroying his clothes let him get angry - but he only owned so many clothes, yet there was so much anger.

Another hand joined his, Francis' long fingers resting atop his. "What is the matter?" he asked, in a voice so quiet Arthur almost missed it. His tongue tentatively licked at his lips as he searched for the words to being with.

"I... Alfred...Its just - oh, God, I don't know! I thought, well, I thought I'd be okay to come back, he'd still want to see me!"

"But 'e does!" Francis protested. "You are the one person 'e cannot stop talking about!" Arthur grimaced.

"Because he wanted his father back, not a strange looking man he can't remember-"

"What are you talking about, it's been, what, five months?"

"I'm not the man I was! Look at me! Look!" He glared down at his legs. "... I used to pick him up with one arm, now look. I can't stand alone, he doesn't like it." Arthur looked up, and Francis could see fresh tears in his eyes.

"He... He's so happy, isn't he? Now, with you... he loves you, I can tell. He's started thinking of you as his father-"

"Now, Arthur!" Francis gasped. "Do not continue that thought for one more second, I am not replacing you!" Arthur shook his head, flopping back into the chair. He threw his hands up and shrugged.

"Well, he looks happy! How can I ruin that, take him home, now that he's here? He's not going to want to go, is he?"

Francis looked over the Englishman. He took in his thin frame, the cool green eyes and those pale, frowning lips. The frown didn't suit him, Francis decided. He leant closer, cupping the Brit's chin with one hand and pulled it up. Confused eyes, followed but Arthur didn't pull back, making Francis smile.

"Who says you 'ave to go anywhere Mr. Kirkland?"

* * *

They fell back into a routine, only this time there was a new addition. Arthur became part of their make-shift family, and Francis could see the changes happening. Alfred, it seemed, had been holding back on him and was now louder than ever and had got even cheekier since his father's arrival. More often than not, he arrived home late, Ivan and Matthew in tow, but somehow avoided the whack around the back of the head. Matthew too, seemed more open, which made Francis swell with pride. Matthew had always been quiet, often ignored by others. Now he spoke out more, and while often mistaken for Alfred (who had shot up to match him in height) he had still become more extrovert. He often arrived by Arthur's side in the evening, whenever the man pulled out one of his books. Both of them shared a love for books, and Arthur enjoyed having someone to read to, since Alfred couldn't sit still long enough for him to finish a chapter. They got along like a house on fire, Francis thought.

There were changes in Arthur too, Francis noted. He was getting stronger, having to rely on is arms more now, and each time he lifted Alfred up, it looked that little bit easier. His smile was showing more now too, Francis would catch him smiling happily to himself or into a cup of tea of a night. He had gotten past the polite stiffness of being a guest and become more of a friend. Still, it didn't stop the two arguing like mad.

_"What the 'ell are you doing?!"_

_"I was cooking! Now look what you've done!"_

_"What I did?! How did I do this, it wasn't me who-" _

Most arguments followed this line, and dissolved into the two hurling curses in their native tongue across the room. Yet, Francis had come to learn they didn't mean much, the next morning usually arrived with a smooth apology and a cup of tea, made just for him. Francis secretly enjoyed these make-up sessions, because Arthur would finally be honest with him, and well, he loved to see him smile.

It wasn't just Francis who enjoyed these morning apologies though, Arthur sometimes wasted the night away thinking of the next morning. Not that he'd admit it to the 'damn frog', but he always felt bad whenever he started a row, a little hurt when Francis retaliated. When morning came, he could start afresh, and he could never tire of seeing Francis' face light up when he handed him a cup of steaming tea.

Not that either would admit. They were just friends. Friends.

* * *

"Afternoon mon petit Angleterre!" Francis called, as he unlocked the front door one sunny afternoon. He had recently taken on a part time job, cleaning in the big mansion in the village. It paid fairly well for the job, and with Arthur's money from the army, as well as mixing their rations, it meant they could all live comfortably (even if Francis did have to sacrifice some tea to keep the Englishman running).

"I'm in the kitchen, Frenchy," Arthur called back, and Francis could hear the rhythmic tap of his crutch on the tiled floor. Francis slipped off his coat, sliding it onto the hook next to Arthur's. Neither could quite remember when that hook had become Arthur's, it just... had. Like Arthur's seat was always next to Alfred, at the head of the table, or his toothbrush was the one to the right of Matthew's. He was like the missing piece Francis had never noticed.

Francis pushed the kitchen door open, to find Arthur with his back to him, washing a pile of dishes on the side. The long window let in the sun, and it flooded the kitchen, making Arthur almost glow in it's light. He stood tall and straight, expertly balanced on his aid while he gently washed the plate in his hand. The quiet buzz of the radio completed the perfect picture, and Francis was almost bowled over by how... amazing Arthur looked. His shirt stretched perfectly over his shoulders, his hair just tickling the collar. The tea towel tucked into his waistband had come to rest on that flaming gorgoeus ar-

_'Non. I did not just... I am not thinking about Arthur like th- has he always been that well built?'_

"Francis?" Arthur's voice pulled him out, and he shook his head, returning to the kitchen. Big brows knitted themselves together, as Arthur peered at him. "You alright?" Francis smiled smugly. "Oui... I'm fine," he replied, stepping towards Arthur. The Brit placed the plate onto the draining board, and dropped the sponge back into the sink. He turned to Francis, watching him suspiciously as he pulled out the tea towel. "Okay then - your turn to dry up, I think?" He held out the towel. When Francis did nothing but gaze into his eyes, he batted it at him, tickling his chin with it. "Oi, mister, it's only fair I-"

Francis suddenly had his wrist, and was pulling him closer. "You know, Arthur, you look _so _'andsome today?" Then he reached for his chin, and hastily pressed their lips together. Arthur fumbled for a second, fighting against him but goodness, the Frenchman was delicious. He couldn't deny that he had dreamt of this; late, late into the night, maybe once or twice. His arms came to their senses, and he discarded the crutch with a wave, holding himself between Francis and the worktop. Francis' hands ran the length of him, curling into his hair, ravaging his chest and hips - and Arthur mirrored his actions.

All too soon, they stopped, and Arthur grinned wildly up at Francis, who chuckled breathlessly.

"You wouldn't believe 'ow long I 'ave wanted to do that..."

* * *

It was almost four years later, on the 8th of May 1945, that the little family was reshaped once again. It was a normal day to begin with, the boys up horrendously early and rolling around the living room floor while their fathers still slept. Eventually, Alfred's yells as he was tackled by Matthew woke Arthur, who in turn rolled over and nudged Francis.

"Go 'n tell 'em to shud' up... Francis..." he murmured, still half asleep. Francis groaned. "You," he insisted. They spent exactly five minutes arguing over who should get up, by which time both of them were awake anyway. Arthur grabbed his cane and Francis' pulled on his dressing gown as they made their way downstairs, hands having got entwined somewhere along the way.

"Boys, do calm down!" Arthur said as he walked in. The two boys looked up from the floor, grinning. "But we're in the middle of a battle!" Arthur chuckled and poked Alfred with his foot. "Becuase we need anther battle, don't we? I've had enough of this bloody war, goodness me," he said as he took his seat and Francis made his way in wih theiir morning drinks.

"Just because you 'ate the rationing Arthur," he laughed, nestling next to his partner. They couldn't marry, they knew that, and the people weren't exactly welcoming about their relationships, but the two felt as safe and happy in the walls of their home to be as in love as any married couple could be.

They watched the boys play as the drank, before Francis asked Matthew to get up and turn the radio on. As had become their routine, the French pair went around making breakfast while Alfred and Arthur cleaned the house. It wasn't long before the four of them sat at the table, quietly finishing their meals. It seemed right that the message come through at the only time the house was ever silent. The radio crackled, and then;

_"Yesterday morning at 2:41 a.m. at General Eisenhowers Headquarters, General Jodl, the representative of the German High Command, and of Grand Admiral Doenitz, the designated head of the German State, signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German Land, sea, and air forces in Europe to the Allied Expeditionary Force, and simultaneously to the Soviet High Command."_

All heads snapped up, and the first hints of smiles hung on the family's lips. As the message continued, their smiles grew, and before they knew it, they were out of their seats, hugging, laughing and in Alfred's case creating the most noise possible. The boys, suddenly struck with inspiration, ran for the door, finding their neighbors doing the same. People of all ages ran into the street, and there was cheering and hugging everywhere. Francis and Arthur followed them out, finding Alfred at the door with Matthew, Ivan appearing by their side to hug them.

Arthur wrapped his arm around Francis' waist as they stood in the door way, and the Frenchman looked down at his little Englishman. "It's over..." he said, and Arthur smiled. "It's finally over..."

_Advance, Britannia! Long live the cause of freedom! God save the King!_


End file.
